Closed doors
by richardbrook
Summary: A little experiment. I'm not sure where I'm taking this yet.


John stood around in the living room. _His_ living room. It'd been quite an eventful couple of days, and he hadn't really found the time to get settled in his new place. Everything around him was Sherlock's, though he wasn't sure when or where _he_ had found the time to decorate the place. 'For goodness sake, sit down,' John hissed to himself. 'You live here.' He hummed some more to himself before grabbing a newspaper from the coffee table. The case they'd just solved was on the front page. _He_'d made the front page. He'd saved lives for ages, but killing a man had got him straight into the news. Not with name, obviously.

'Bathroom's free,' Sherlock's voice bellowed. Bellowing wasn't quite the word. It was loud, but never aggressive. Arrogant though, terribly, _terribly_ arrogant. It always seemed like everything he said was of importance to at least the western part of London. John turned to nod at him, but froze halfway.

'I'll- ehm. I'm reading something. ' He held up the newspaper. The bathroom was free, but it looked like someone had dragged him out of there. He was dripping wet, surely leaving a trail through the hallway. A white towel was loosely wrapped around his- Not anymore it wasn't. With a sharp tug, Sherlock almost ripped the white cotton from his loins and started rubbing his hair. 'Oh-kay,' John frowned, turning back to his reading.

'I _am_ at home,' Sherlock emphasised, waddling to the window, his feet soaking the carpet.

'Didn't say anything,' John muttered. 'It _is_ my home too, if you'd forgotten.'

'Of course I haven't forgotten. You're hereby allowed to walk around naked.'

'No thanks.' John's forehead creased as Sherlock sat back in the chair opposite of him. He had no intention whatsoever to put clothes on in the first couple of hours. He probably had a great theory about how it was better to let the moisture evaporate from his skin than to violently rub it off and possibly leave some behind to create the perfect habitat for athlete's foot. Granted, he had great skin.

'What does it say? Are you in it?' Sherlock's chin rose slightly, nodding towards the paper John was still holding but hadn't read a letter of.

'I doubt it,' John mumbled, folding it and dropping it back on the table. It didn't matter what was in the piece. He probably knew more anyway. 'I wanted to ask you something.'

'Shoot.'

John smiled, shook his head and straightened his neck. He wasn't used to talking to naked people. Certainly not naked people he barely knew.

'I was just… wondering, I guess, why I'm living here.'

'You're my roommate. You wouldn't technically be my roommate if you didn't live here.' Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, loosening his curls from the root up.

'Will you let me finish?'

'Oh, there's more?'

John glared at his obvious disinterest. It was helpful, in a way. It'd taught him when to stop talking, and he didn't mind being quiet for a while.

'You don't need a roommate, clearly. You're perfectly happy on your own and if you were in financial trouble, your brother would happily chip in. So I'm just asking you why I live here. The place, really, is too small for two grown men, there's no room for any of my stuff and you have no clue how to interact with people.' He didn't excuse himself for the boldness, Sherlock knew he was right.

'Are you trying to deduct something here?' John huffed. That was exactly what he meant. Everything he said was either completely ridiculed or completely ignored. 'You're supposed to come to a conclusion when you deduct, you know,' Sherlock added, his eyes on his fingernails. He plucked at them.

'Am I an experiment? Like the body parts scattered around the different kitchen utensils?' That was as far as John's gotten with his conclusion, it had to be something along those lines.

'I have no intention to scatter you around the kitchen,' Sherlock stated dryly.

'Sherlock.'

'A man needs a friend, right?'

'You're just repeating words in a combination you've heard before. It means nothing to you.' John was getting rather tired of his avoiding behaviour. It wasn't like he was trying to get declaration of his love out of him, he wasn't even fishing for emotion. Just a simple explanation would have satisfied him. 'Why me? What if I turned out to be some kind of lunatic, with a posttraumatic stress syndrome from the war. I can handle guns, I could kill you right now.'

'Oh, please,' Sherlock huffed. He rolled his eyes, his forehead all frown.

'What? I could potentially be a _very_ dangerous man,' John articulated.

'No, you couldn't. Now go shower, you reek. I thought it was me, but clearly it isn't,' Sherlock rambled and leaned back, closing his eyes. End of conversation.

It wasn't until John was in the shower, scrubbing under his arms, that he realised how big the other man's influence on him was. He'd been sitting across the room from him. The stench couldn't possibly have been that bad if he hadn't noticed himself. He'd been a tad distracted. Sherlock could make him do anything. Forget sex on the first date, try shooting a man. It made him better, in a way. Sherlock was a kind of accessory that appealed to everyone, apparently. John hadn't had as much attention as he had now in years. Sadly Sherlock was the person keeping that attention at a safe distance at the same time.

Wrapping a towel around his waist in the way Sherlock had, John considered walking into the living room naked. He didn't. Ruffling a second towel over his head, he waddled into the room.

'I've been thinking, am I like a dog to you? Something to take-' It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness in the room, but when they did, John found Sherlock passed out on the couch, a thin robe covering him. 'Take care of,' John finished. He slumped down and smiled. He shook his head. This was what people with children must mean. Peace comes when they go to bed. It struck him that maybe he hadn't been far off with his deduction. Maybe he wasn't the dog. Maybe Sherlock was. A talented sniffer dog that just needed an owner to get some credibility, just so he wouldn't be shooed away from crime scenes. John cocked his head to the side and scratched his chin. He needed a shave. It surprised him that he hadn't gotten any comment on that.

Sherlock stirred In his sleep an John decided it would be weird if he woke up to find him there. 'If you're sleeping here, I'm taking your bed, alright?' John smirked. It was easy, talking to him like this. 'Alright, John. Sure thing. You go ahead.' For a moment, John thought about getting him a blanket or something. He'd never seen a man wearing a robe that thin, so he couldn't imagine whether it gave any warmth. He hesitated at the bedroom door and eventually tugged a plaid blanket out of the cupboard. He sighed, waving yet another part of his masculinity goodbye and unfolded the thing over Sherlock's feet. With the way he was curled up, he could just fit under it. The frilly ends tickled his chin and he strained his neck up. John held his breath and paused at a safe distance before returning to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and crawled under the sheets. Sherlock was his dog. Adopted child, perhaps. Dog was a little degrading. Although Sherlock probably didn't see a difference in value.


End file.
